


There's Something Inside You (It's Hard to Explain)

by knune



Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1980s, Alternate Universe - College/University, Drug Use, Dubious Consent, M/M, Prostitution, Sex Drugs and Rock and Roll
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-21
Updated: 2012-02-21
Packaged: 2017-11-03 14:41:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/382440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/knune/pseuds/knune
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's the 1980s and Leonard McCoy is on a downhill spiral.</p>
            </blockquote>





	There's Something Inside You (It's Hard to Explain)

**Author's Note:**

> I really blame this on the Drive Soundtrack, particularly these songs: [ Nightcall by Kavinsky ft. Lovefoxxx](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MV_3Dpw-BRY&feature=results_video&playnext=1&list=PLF1BEAADB4268FA39) (which is also where the title comes from) and [ Under Your Spell by Desire](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9K7rmxjk5RQ&feature=related). I highly recommend listening to these while reading this because they perfectly set the tone.
> 
> Also, please heed the warnings. And since I stayed up all night working on this, it hasn't been through a beta or even properly proofread. Please excuse any mistakes.

*  
There’s a familiar bitter taste in Len’s mouth. Sour. He spits on the sidewalk and it doesn’t help, the taste just lingers, rots in his mouth, and it’s pungent, overpowering, and there’s not enough mouthwash in the world to get rid of it. It’s a side effect, a necessary evil, and it’s worth it if you ask him. It really is.

He’s leaning against a rough brick wall, outside of some club and he doesn’t remember the name. It’s something stupid and trendy like _Eight Ball_ or _Anthrax_ , but everything is haze of flashing neon pinks and greens and he can’t see the sign above his head.

And fuck, he doesn’t give a shit where he is. There’s a breeze blowing against his sweat soaked skin, goose pimples prickling against his forearms, and it feels amazing. He could stay here forever and just not give a fuck.

Of course, this is the moment Jim picks to roar up in his pretentious white Camaro, the roof down, the radio blasting, and he looks like a stereotypical idiot with his popped collar and _Members Only_ jacket. Jim slams to a stop in front of Len, turns the radio down and leans across the empty passenger seat to push the door open. Len stumbles into the car and slumps down against the red leather seats.

“Have fun?” Jim asks, wiping something off Len’s lip. It’s white and milky against Jim’s thumb and there’s this look on his face, one that Len can’t place but it’s all furrowed bushy brow and hard eyes and it has to be disappointment.

Len doesn’t say anything. He just leans his head against the door, closes his eyes and listens to the soft hum of the engine. He tries not to hear the sigh from the other side of the car, the rough jerk of the gear stick shifting into place, and it’s becoming easier to ignore night after night.

Jim pulls away from the club, the flashing lights fading in the distance, and he cranks the radio back up. They merge into traffic, Depeche Mode blasting from the speakers, and they say nothing at all.

_Enjoy the silence_

*

Len wakes up to someone pushing at him, shoving him, and he’s clawing at the edge with his fingertips, trying to hold onto his dream, onto the bliss and oblivion he was ripped from.

“Get up, Len. Get up.” It’s Jim. Of course it’s fucking Jim. Jim, who won’t ever leave him alone, who pokes and prods at him, who treats him like he’s a fucking child that needs constant scolding. He’s so goddamn annoying. “You’re going to miss your Biochem final if you don’t leave soon.”

Len reaches out, his eyes still closed, and he feels a patch of skin that might be an arm. His head hurts far too much to open his eyes, to see what he’s really got a handful of. “Leave me alone,” he grumbles, slapping at the skin as hard as he can (which isn’t very hard at all).

“Motherfucker, get up. You don’t want to miss this.” The skin lingers for a moment, and it feels so soft, so clean, Len wants to dig his nails into it and crawl inside. “I guess you do,” Jim says and then moves away, leaving Len’s hand hanging in the empty air. He lets it fall and dangle off the side of the mattress, his fingertips brushing against threads of shag carpeting, and he digs his head back into his pillow.

The front door slams a minute later and Len can’t be bothered to give a shit. He falls asleep.

*

This time Len knows where he is: the back room of a neon disaster called _Feathers_. It would be ridiculous if Len’s mind wasn’t swimming, if the walls and the floor weren’t melting together into a mess of black and white and hot pink. There’s smoke hanging in the air, people everywhere, and it’s hot as shit in here. Sticky and sweaty and overly familiar.

He’s sitting on a sofa, or maybe it’s a chair, maybe it’s a goddamn milk carton. All he really knows is that there’s a mirror in front of him, a razor, carefully cut lines. There’s a hand on his thigh, inching higher and higher, a voice in his ear whispering, “You know what you have to do.” And he does, he really does.

The taste is something he never adjusts to. Bitter and musky and it’s so fucking worth it. There are no regrets here, not right now.

Jim picks him up an hour later, Madonna blasting from the radio this time. She’s a material girl and Len is far gone from here. He’s out in space, where there’s nothing but darkness and silence but this is the closest he’s been to happiness in a long, long time.

_I’m down on my knees, I wanna take you there_

*

He opens his eyes and he’s on fire, burning from the inside out with something he can’t find a word for. He’s sweating, drenched, and he can’t stand it. His skin itches, his fingers twitch and he’s going to go crazy if he doesn’t do something soon.

Jim is stretched out next to him, just like he is every night, and he’s sound asleep. His eyelids flutter and somewhere in the back of Len’s mind he knows it’s the REM cycle, some little stupid part of him used to know things like that a long time ago. Sometimes he regurgitates information like he’s recalling a past life and that’s all it really is anyway. He isn’t that person anymore.

Len pushes the covers off Jim and runs a finger down his bare back, traces down his spine, dipping into every notch and crevice of vertebrae (and he tries so goddamn hard to not think _Atlas, Axis, C3, C4_ ). He pulls down Jim’s boxers, slowly, inch by inch, and spits on his fingers. It’s enough, it has to be enough.

He tries to ease a finger in but he’s too impatient, his skin too tight, his blood too raw and enflamed to be gentle. He’s rough, slams the finger in, and Jim jerks, his eyes popping open.

“Jesus, Len. Stop it.” Jim slaps at Len, his open palm meeting the side of Len’s face and the sound echoes in the room. But Len doesn’t stop, he just adds another finger and Jim squirms, his eyes falling closed again and his face scrunches up in some unpleasant way. “Hurry up, okay? Hurry. I have to be up in two hours.”

There are a million things Len wants to say. _Don’t tell me what to do_ is on the top of the list but he can’t think straight, can’t seem to make his brain and tongue cooperate at the same time. He just withdraws his fingers, yanks his own shorts down and lines up at Jim’s entrance like he’s done so many times before. He’s about to slide home when Jim is slapping at him again.

“Fuck you. Use a condom.”

The slaps are hard, hard enough to leave bruises if Len gave a shit about that kind of thing. He really doesn’t though and his self-control is out the window. He can’t stop now. Jim can’t be fucking serious to try to make him stop now for something that stupid.

“Shut up,” Len manages to say and he digs his fingers into Jim’s hips. There was a time when this was gentle but those are forgotten days as well.

Jim is squirming again, kicking his legs but he has no leverage and Len is an immovable brick shithouse right now. His effort is useless and a little annoying. “No, Len. You have to use a condom.”

“I can’t stop now, Jim. I can’t.” Len kisses the back of Jim’s neck and pushes his way inside. He can’t hear anything anymore, not over the white noise rushing in his ears, the blood racing through his veins. He doesn’t hear Jim.

He closes his eyes and thrusts. The fire is extinguished.

*

A letter is thrust into his face the second Len walks through the door. It’s late, so late he’s not even sure what day it is anymore. The sun is peaking up from the horizon and he thinks maybe for a moment he’s gone back in time and the day is fresh and new and there’s twenty-four hours sitting before him on a silver platter waiting for him to take. Then he sees Jim’s crystal blue eyes and is fast-forwarded back to the present.

He was on his own tonight. No ride in the white knight Camaro. He managed to make it home, maybe later than usual but he managed. He doesn’t fucking need Jim.

“What’s this?” He rips the paper out of Jim’s hand and squints at it. There are words on the page but they’re dancing, wiggling, and it makes no fucking sense. Whatever this is, it can’t be important.

Jim takes the paper back and rips it up into a thousand tiny fucking pieces. “You’re on academic probation.” He throws them at Len, like confetti, and this is probably the worst kind of celebration. “Congratulations. You’re a failure.”

“Tell me something I don’t know.” Len leans forward, grabs a handful of popped collar and presses his lips against Jim’s. “I’m not meant to be a doctor anyway.”

“No, I guess you’re not.” Jim brushes a piece of letter off Len’s shirt and avoids his eyes. “I’m going to class.” He’s out the door then, a mess of ripped paper and a slammed door left behind.

Len passes out on the kitchen table.

*

Jim doesn’t look at Len in the eyes much anymore. It’s always to the left of his nose or the right of his mouth but never in his eyes. Jim probably thinks he doesn’t notice but he’s not a moron, he notices things. He notices a hell of a lot but keeps his lips shut because maybe he just doesn’t care. It’s hard to care these days.

He tries something different tonight, something that he shoots into his arm, and he swears to god his heart stops for a second. Then it restarts and beats loud and fast in his ribcage that he’s sure it’s going to dislodge, rip away from the aorta and climb up his throat and out his mouth.

He’s so fucking gone. Whatever this is, it’s the goddamn meaning of life.

Len can’t find the street so someone takes him there and props him up against a lamppost, leaving him there with telltale needle marks embedded into his skin. The Camaro is nothing but a blur of white and red and Hall and Oates when it pulls up to the curb.

There are hands on him, pushing and pulling, and then soft, cool leather against his cheek. There’s nothing to remember about this, it happens almost every night, but the engine is a comfort in his ears as he passes out.

_You’re out of touch, I’m out of time_

*

Jim looks up at him from the couch. There are glasses perched on the top of his head, papers strewn about everywhere and he must be working on his thesis, if he’s still doing that lawyer thing. “Can you just stay home tonight?”

“No way. That new club, _Neo_ , opened yesterday. Sulu says he can get me in.”

“Please, stay home. We can watch the A-Team or something.” The glasses fall down off Jim’s head and land on the bridge of his nose. He looks old, far older than his twenty-six years, and he looks a lot like Len’s father, frown and all. The thought makes Len want to vomit. “Just sit down.”

Len feels the anger boiling beneath his skin and he wants to throw something but there’s nothing in here that would make a satisfying crunch. Jim Kirk is a hypocrite of the worst variety. “You were the one dragging me to these fucking clubs in the first place. Now you want to sit home and watch television?”

“When’s the last time we went together? Shit, Len. You have to knock this shit off.” Jim does throw something, one of the books he had carefully balanced on the arm of the sofa. It flies across the room and bounces softly off the wall. It leaves an unsatisfying black mark.

“I don’t have to listen to a fucking thing you say.” Len grabs his wallet and shoves it into his back pocket. “I’ll call you when I need a ride.”

He leaves Jim to his thesis and tries to ignore the loud thud that follows him out the door. He’s not cleaning the goddamn walls of scuff marks.

*

Len can’t see the Camaro but he knows it’s there. He can hear Tears for Fears blasting from the stereo system but it’s background music to the loud bass line thumping in his head. It’s his heartbeat, he’s sure of it, and it’s slowing.

 _Bradycardia_ , his past life reminds him. So goddamn annoying. He just wants to die in peace without having a running diagnosis in his head. And he’s sure he’s dying, in a gutter, just like Poe.

“Shit, shit. Len! Can you hear me?” Hands are pulling at him and he’s knows it’s goddamn Jim. It’s always goddamn Jim, who can’t let him die in fucking peace. “Come on, open your eyes.”

The hand is on his face now and it slaps him, hard, but he can’t seem to open his eyes, can’t make his eyelids cooperate tonight. Jim is pleading with him and it’s becoming softer and softer, drowned out by the bass line in his brain.

“Please, Len.” It’s the last thing he hears.

_You don’t give me love, you give me cold hands_

*

He doesn’t die. Of course he doesn’t die but he comes damn close.

When he wakes, he’s in a hospital, hooked up to IV lines and the raw, painful feeling that a tube had been down his throat at some point. There’s a hand in his and he knows he’s not alone. He’s never alone, not really.

“Hey,” Jim says (of course it’s fucking Jim), his hand tightening around Len’s limp fingers. “You scared the shit out of me.”

Len shrugs and he’s not sure how to act, what to do. He doesn’t pull his hand away but doesn’t squeeze back. “Sorry,” he replies but it sounds insincere. He isn’t sure how this works anymore, not sober anyway.

“Don’t do it again, please.” Jim’s face is shimmering in the harsh, fluorescent lighting, and it’s not a trick of the light or a tripped out hallucination. Jim’s face is wet and Len is the asshole who caused it. “I can’t take much more. You can’t fucking do this anymore.”

It’s a lecture, from someone younger than Len, and it’s really goddamn annoying when there’s an IV in his arm and he’s pretty sure there’s a catheter up his urethra. “I don’t know what you want from me.”

Jim laughs and it’s weird. This is the first time he’s seen Jim laugh in a long fucking time. He’s forgotten what it looked like but here it is and it makes something in his chest shrivel up and there’s pressure behind his eyes, moisture building up and if he’s not careful, his face is going to shimmer in the worst way as well.

He’s done this to Jim. Jim, who’s done nothing but pick Len up when he falls, even when he does it time and time again, on a nightly basis. This must be love, or at least something like it.

“I want you to try. Just fucking try.” Jim’s wiping his face with his sleeve but he looks at Len with those expectant eyes, the ones that are rimmed red because some asshole overdosed and ended up in the hospital.

Maybe it’s the saline drip or the lack of shit flowing through his veins but Len nods as the fingers around his tighten. “I can do that,” he says.

He doesn’t know if he means it or not.

*

**Author's Note:**

> The songs used in this are probably really obvious but I thought I'd list them out anyway:
> 
> Depeche Mode - Enjoy the Silence (which okay, came out in like 1990 but whatev)  
> Madonna - Like a Prayer  
> Hall and Oates - Out of Touch  
> Tears for Fears - Pale Shelter


End file.
